Pulling back with reluctance, he stared down into her glazed-over eyes and nearly drowned.
She licked her lips, just a little dart of her tongue as if she needed that one last taste of him and gave a sweet, pleasure-filled sigh that went straight through him. “Not that I’m complaining, but what was that for?”
“Luck.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He grimaced. “Listen, you should know, the guys think you’re a good-luck charm.” He paused, expecting her to get mad, which she’d certainly be within her rights.
But once again, she surprised him.
“Well, then,” she murmured, her voice still a little husky. “Best of luck to you.”
The Heat won, then went on to take the series two out of three games. Back at home, Pace coached Chipper and the others through a pickup game and then worked another 4 The Kids charity event with his teammates, this one a big, fancy dinner where they served up the food to the rich and famous. He had a surprisingly good time, especially watching Holly, who’d volunteered to serve drinks, easily and sweetly helping warm up both the guests and their wallets.
They made a cool $150,000 that night for the charity’s pockets, then flew to Houston. At two in the morning, with Pace scheduled to pitch to the Astros in less than twelve hours, his cell phone rang.
“Bad news,” the Skip said without preamble. “Ty and Henry were just pulled over outside of some bar. Henry’s been arrested for DUI, and Ty was hauled in along with him for disorderly conduct.”
Pace’s gut tightened. “Oh Christ.”
“Sam is working on getting the disorderly charge dropped, but brace yourself for a media frenzy with the DUI.”
He wasn’t kidding. By the next morning, the papers and blogs had gotten a hold of the story, claiming Ty had been held for suspected drug possession. One paper even suggested that the relief pitcher had been taking a new highly controversial stimulant, controversial because it wasn’t easily detected during drug testing. The rumor went that it worked better, faster, and with fewer side affects.
The rumors couldn’t be traced, but they were persistent and spread like wildfire.
Henry admitted only to having two beers in his system when he got behind the wheel, stupidly attempting to drive himself and Ty back to their hotel, but that was it. He continuously and adamantly denied drug use, while humbly admitting that the DUI was bad enough, as it was going to cost him both personally and in the eyes of the fans.
In Ty’s case, however, he refused to apologize, saying the papers were not only wrong but slandering him, because the so-called drugs they’d found on him were nothing more than vitamins.
None of it mattered. Hell, the truth didn’t seem to matter as the press continued to slaughter the Heat the whole time they were in Houston, proclaiming that they were young and wild and far too cocky, that they thought they could do anything and get away with it. The MLB commissioner came under pressure to do more random drug testing, and promised to respond.
Before the next day’s game, Pace was in the clubhouse when things went from bad to worse: his father called. “You forget my number?” the old man asked.
Just what Pace needed, that disapproving tone right before a game. “Hi, Dad.”
“I’m in Houston. You going to win or lose today? Because if you’re planning on winning, I thought I’d come watch.”
Edward Martin didn’t make it to many games because of his busy schedule. And in truth, their relationship was far better for it. They had one of those things-are-fine-if-we-don’t-spend-too-much-time-together relationships. “I’ll get you a seat.” Pace hung up knowing he’d either disappoint his father or not, but to stack the deck in his favor, he searched the clubhouse because he had a girl to kiss.
“She’s not here,” Wade told him. “No extras in the clubhouse today. Given our press problems, management thought it best.”
Hell. He reminded himself that he wasn’t superstitious, that of course he could win without kissing Holly.
“I’ll go pull her from the stands,” Red offered.
“Not necessary.”
“Yeah, it is,” he said, and headed out the clubhouse door, only to come back a few minutes later, flushed and wheezing—and alone. “Not in her seat,” he said, calling Gage, who was just about to use the PA system to comb through the entire stadium looking for her when Pace stopped them both. “This is ridiculous. We are not hauling her in here for some stupid superstition.”
But then he went out and pitched like crap and was yanked at the bottom of the third.
They lost.
The guys gave him shit on shit. Hell, Red didn’t even speak to him the whole flight back. The only one who did was the sole flight attendant, who somewhere over Arizona pulled up her skirt and asked him to sign her inner thigh.
He sat alone on the plane, head back, eyes closed, until he felt a set of legs brush his.
Her scent teased his nostrils, some complicated mix of exotic fruit, maybe flowers—all he knew was that it was amazing. She was amazing.
He opened his eyes as Holly squeezed in past him and sat. Around them, the plane was silent. The lights were dimmed; most everyone was sleeping.
“You okay?” she asked after a minute.
“Been better.”
“Is it your shoulder?”
“No.” Nope, he’d stunk up the diamond all on his own today.
“You know what they all think,” she murmured. “That we should have—”
She licked her lips, just a little dart of her tongue as if she needed that one last taste of him and gave a sweet, pleasure-filled sigh that went straight through him. “Not that I’m complaining, but what was that for?”
“Luck.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He grimaced. “Listen, you should know, the guys think you’re a good-luck charm.” He paused, expecting her to get mad, which she’d certainly be within her rights.
But once again, she surprised him.
“Well, then,” she murmured, her voice still a little husky. “Best of luck to you.”
The Heat won, then went on to take the series two out of three games. Back at home, Pace coached Chipper and the others through a pickup game and then worked another 4 The Kids charity event with his teammates, this one a big, fancy dinner where they served up the food to the rich and famous. He had a surprisingly good time, especially watching Holly, who’d volunteered to serve drinks, easily and sweetly helping warm up both the guests and their wallets.
They made a cool $150,000 that night for the charity’s pockets, then flew to Houston. At two in the morning, with Pace scheduled to pitch to the Astros in less than twelve hours, his cell phone rang.
“Bad news,” the Skip said without preamble. “Ty and Henry were just pulled over outside of some bar. Henry’s been arrested for DUI, and Ty was hauled in along with him for disorderly conduct.”
Pace’s gut tightened. “Oh Christ.”
“Sam is working on getting the disorderly charge dropped, but brace yourself for a media frenzy with the DUI.”
He wasn’t kidding. By the next morning, the papers and blogs had gotten a hold of the story, claiming Ty had been held for suspected drug possession. One paper even suggested that the relief pitcher had been taking a new highly controversial stimulant, controversial because it wasn’t easily detected during drug testing. The rumor went that it worked better, faster, and with fewer side affects.
The rumors couldn’t be traced, but they were persistent and spread like wildfire.
Henry admitted only to having two beers in his system when he got behind the wheel, stupidly attempting to drive himself and Ty back to their hotel, but that was it. He continuously and adamantly denied drug use, while humbly admitting that the DUI was bad enough, as it was going to cost him both personally and in the eyes of the fans.
In Ty’s case, however, he refused to apologize, saying the papers were not only wrong but slandering him, because the so-called drugs they’d found on him were nothing more than vitamins.
None of it mattered. Hell, the truth didn’t seem to matter as the press continued to slaughter the Heat the whole time they were in Houston, proclaiming that they were young and wild and far too cocky, that they thought they could do anything and get away with it. The MLB commissioner came under pressure to do more random drug testing, and promised to respond.
Before the next day’s game, Pace was in the clubhouse when things went from bad to worse: his father called. “You forget my number?” the old man asked.
Just what Pace needed, that disapproving tone right before a game. “Hi, Dad.”
“I’m in Houston. You going to win or lose today? Because if you’re planning on winning, I thought I’d come watch.”
Edward Martin didn’t make it to many games because of his busy schedule. And in truth, their relationship was far better for it. They had one of those things-are-fine-if-we-don’t-spend-too-much-time-together relationships. “I’ll get you a seat.” Pace hung up knowing he’d either disappoint his father or not, but to stack the deck in his favor, he searched the clubhouse because he had a girl to kiss.
“She’s not here,” Wade told him. “No extras in the clubhouse today. Given our press problems, management thought it best.”
Hell. He reminded himself that he wasn’t superstitious, that of course he could win without kissing Holly.
“I’ll go pull her from the stands,” Red offered.
“Not necessary.”
“Yeah, it is,” he said, and headed out the clubhouse door, only to come back a few minutes later, flushed and wheezing—and alone. “Not in her seat,” he said, calling Gage, who was just about to use the PA system to comb through the entire stadium looking for her when Pace stopped them both. “This is ridiculous. We are not hauling her in here for some stupid superstition.”
But then he went out and pitched like crap and was yanked at the bottom of the third.
They lost.
The guys gave him shit on shit. Hell, Red didn’t even speak to him the whole flight back. The only one who did was the sole flight attendant, who somewhere over Arizona pulled up her skirt and asked him to sign her inner thigh.
He sat alone on the plane, head back, eyes closed, until he felt a set of legs brush his.
Her scent teased his nostrils, some complicated mix of exotic fruit, maybe flowers—all he knew was that it was amazing. She was amazing.
He opened his eyes as Holly squeezed in past him and sat. Around them, the plane was silent. The lights were dimmed; most everyone was sleeping.
“You okay?” she asked after a minute.
“Been better.”
“Is it your shoulder?”
“No.” Nope, he’d stunk up the diamond all on his own today.
“You know what they all think,” she murmured. “That we should have—”
